It's 2:00 a.m., Tuesday morning, January 9, 2007. I've just shown up at Woodly Island Marina, where I sit in the dark with butterflies in my stomach as a light drizzle sprinkles me through a thick layer of fog. My mind runs wild with anticipation and thoughts of what will come in my approaching 26-hour crabbing adventure. How will I handle the open water? Will I get sick? Should I take Dramamine or just balls up and hope for the best?
At around 2:20 a.m., Wayne Sohrakoff, captain of the Drifter, pulls into the parking lot in his ford f-150. He slowly climbs out and gathers his things and heads down the ramp to his 51 foot fishing vessel. Then, the diesel engines fire to life and the boat becomes illuminated with a beautiful Tungsten light--a signal that the day is just getting started.
As the boat fires to life, the face of deckhand Casey can be seen through a porthole, where he is busily preparing coffee inside the galley. Captain Schrakoff stands silhouetted in the cockpit, barking commands to Casey about what exactly should be done before the boat can shove off.
2:35 a.m. Still no sign of the 3rd crewmember, Worm, who by this time is 35 minutes late. Schrakoff begins to worry that Worm could possibly be “drunk somewhere.” Casey just shrugs his shoulders and rolls his eyes, as if to say that this scenario is nothing new to him.
2:45 a.m. Worm finally decides to grace the Marina with presence and the Drifter successfully pulls away from its slip, heading out for the open ocean. It's about a 2-hour boat ride north to get to the first string of crab pots, so Casey and Worm head straight to their bunks and passed out. I on the other hand, stay on deck and hold on for dear life, taking in deep breaths of the morning air with the hope that I won't get sick.
I queasily watch as flying fish sparkle in flight next to the boat, and then I slowly take a pull of my cigarette and do my best to take everything in. The muffled ringing of a bell can be heard as we pass the last buoy at the mouth of the harbor. The ringing in my ears not only signals that the boat is now in the open ocean, but also that it is time to start getting sick.
Knots start forming in my stomach, so I take solid hold of the railing, lean over and start vomiting. The sound of the engines, the smell of bait and the rocking motion of the boat rolling over 14 ft. swells, all take a long time to get used to. Feeling as sick as a dog, I'm left wondering if my decision to venture out on the turbid waters of the northern California coast was the right one.
4:45 a.m. The voice of Captain Schrakoff comes over the loud speaker and announces, “10 minutes,” which lets Worm and Casey know that we have reached the first string of pots. Sleepily, these two men climb out of their bunks and start to put on bright orange and yellow rain slickers. Once on deck, Casey and Worm finish running frozen blocks of squid and anchovies through the bait shredder and start filling bait containers--positioning themselves to be ready to process the first crab pot of the day.
The sound of a horn signals that the boat is coming alongside the buoys from the first string as Worm gets his buoy stick ready. The buoy stick, a 12-foot long piece of bamboo with a large metal hook attached to the end, is used to grab the lines attached to the Crab pots. The line is then threaded through a wheel, which mechanically starts bringing in the line and pulling the crab pot to the surface of the ocean so that it can be emptied, baited, and then either stacked on the boat, or thrown back into the ocean. This process takes about 3 minutes from the time that the line is hooked until the pot is thrown back in to the water, and is done with amazing coordination and precision between crewmembers.
As the sun starts to come up, I finally began to develop sea legs, and I no longer feel like I'm going to vomit whenever I put the camera to my eye. The rocking of the boat actually becomes rather soothing, along with the constant cries of seagulls flying behind the boat.
Deckhands Casey and Worm work almost non-stop the entire time we are out at sea. One of their few breaks comes only after we have been at sea for almost 20 hours. Then, the boat had to travel 3 miles to the next string of pots. In this small window of downtime, Casey grabs a large link cod that had gotten stuck in a crab pot, fillets it, breads it, and fries it up in the galley. This meal was one of the best fish dinners I have ever had.
The 26-hour crabbing adventure with the Drifter ended up taking 36 hours. When we got back to shore, I was delirious from sleep deprivation, and I stunk like bait, crab, and bird shit. It took almost a month for my 30D to loose the fishing boat smell; I don’t think I will ever get the smell out of the Aquatech rain cover.
I love adventures like this one that push me to experience things that are out of my comfort zone. These moments teach me about who I am, what I am capable of, and give me confidence for the next time I decide to grab my camera and step outside of my bubble.view images
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